


You, Me & Elvis In Between

by smothermeinrelish



Category: McLennon - Fandom, The Beatles
Genre: Elvis McCartney, Fluff and Smut, Inspired by Elvis Presley songs, Johnny Loves Elvis, M/M, Stealing Records, Young McLennon, bad behavior, paul has a crush, randy lads, teddy boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smothermeinrelish/pseuds/smothermeinrelish
Summary: Johnny ❤️ Elvis!
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 14
Kudos: 95
Collections: mclennon favorites





	You, Me & Elvis In Between

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Readers!
> 
> I wrote this one shot after a visit to Memphis and Graceland over Christmas. I actually REALLY struggled with this, so I hope you like it. XOXOXO
> 
> Thanks for kind words of support and sweet comments :)

“Look at ‘im Paulie. Incredible.” He mutters in awe, as they stand in front of the record shop window. Elvis’s pelvis thrusting towards the camera capturing his pose, and really, the man is pretty incredible. A display of pictures advertising new imports, they stare at the photographs of the American rock n’ rollers, while they smoke the stolen cigarettes John lifted off the man at the chip stand earlier in the day. 

Paul is taking part in more illicit activities now that John has taken to him, coming around often, Jim’s disapproving glares each time ‘that Lennon boy’ shows up. With the intention of nicking some vinyl, Paul lets that tingle of nerves in his gut shut down the catholic guilt his mother instilled. Because since John came into his life, he doesn’t seem to care about rules or laws, all he thinks of is being with John. Impressing him in some way that he doesn’t expect, just like that day not so long ago when he knocked his socks off with his performance of ‘Twenty Flight Rock.’

The gentle chimes ring when they enter the shop, several other people in the store while a Carl Perkins song plays loudly over the speakers. They split up, divide and conquer. Paul keeps his head down, trying to remain aloof as he shuffles up the rows, looking for something worth their time. He hears John strike up a conversation with a shop attendant, creating a diversion. 

Thumbing through the white sleeved 45s, he looks up quickly, eyes on John. A nod of approval for what his neophyte apprentice is about to do. Lifting the two records, he slips them up and under his black t-shirt, winking back over to the teddy boy whose idea this was in the first place. 

Leisurely, Paul makes his way back towards the front door, cool as a cucumber. Walking out the door, waiting for John to join him on the freedom of the sidewalk. It takes longer than Paul wants, panic sets in that perhaps something went wrong. In a beat, John is walking out the door, grinning that stupid smile of his that has Paul enamored, and a bit confused with how much he enjoys being in the man’s presence. 

When they first began spending time together, his moods would wane frequently, leaving Paul on edge. The squint of his eye, the curl of his upper lip, Paul was never sure if John was going to thump him or kiss him. Knowing now that John was not only extremely near sighted (hence the squint) but also perpetually randy, the curling lip, like Elvis, tempting any fit bird in a twenty-meter radius. He had grown familiar to John’s moods and emotional output.

They long-stride in silence until they rounded the corner of the block, where a park breaks off from the busy urban street. When they get to a shade tree, John pushes him up against the rough bark of the trunk, “Where’s the loot, matey?” Tugging up the cotton fabric right above the top of his drainies. The touch ignited the already burst of adrenaline within him, God, Paul needed to call on Dot to help him with his tension. Tension that was growing rapidly in recent weeks.

Studying the two records, “Hank Williams, and Patsy Cline. Not your best booty Paulie, but it’s somethin’.” Hanging his head, he had disappointed John in his selections. “Ah, but don’t be sad, I got us a treasure.” Stepping back from Paul, still against the tree, John reached into the top of his black denim, cupping his hand lower. Paul stared, a slight flush creeping up his cheeks at the motion of John’s hand. 

Pulling a paper tube from the inseam of his pants, he unrolled the small poster of Elvis. The exact one like the ‘Jailhouse Rock’ promo pictures in the shop window. Somewhat baffled as to how he stole it, he stumbled over his words, “How? How’d ya’ manage that out the door?” John barked out a laugh, “Lad behind the counter was chatting up a bird, an’ I lumbered out like a man with a gigantic prick ‘tween his legs!” They both howled with hysterics at the image John relayed.

As they walked back towards Menlove Avenue, the sun was setting low in the sky. The remainder of the day was spent discussing the band’s music, girls, and other topics like the vast infinities of the universe. John had managed to steal a flask of gin as they walked past the horse betting kiosk and offered up sips throughout the day. Being the lightweight John reminded him he was, Paul was pleasantly warm from the alcohol. Feeling as though he was living his best life, a life that was pretty boring until John Lennon came along.

Being upstairs in the bedroom of his best mate, Paul watched as John took the rolled poster and tacked it up on the wall, by the head of his bed, right next to the photos of Brigitte and Marilyn. “Ey Johnny, you got Elvis tacked up next to your wanking materials, don’t want to get those confused now.” Paul sat on the end of the narrow bed, watching as John slumped against the headboard. Smiling, that stupid gin-soaked grin at him, “Now Macca, what makes you think I wouldn’t want to look at Elvis while I’m ‘aving a wank?” The bluntness of his statement, gave Paul pause, he swallowed the lump in his throat.

‘He’s testing me’, Paul thought to himself. ‘Wants me to say something queer, so he can get a rise out of me.’ 

Rather than saying something incriminating, Paul just slouched lower, letting his bent knee press into John’s socked foot, “Daft Bastard.” Shaking his head, to try and change the subject. “But really Paul, what’s the difference?” He turned and looked intently at the photos on his wall. For the first time, confidence in his voice wavered, and Paul hangs on to every word.

“Jus’ saying that, whatever you imagine, you know, before ya’ get…THERE. It’s an awful lot like watching Brigitte shake her tits, or Elvis shake his hips…. Both things give ya’ the burst ya’ crave… get it?” Paul let’s out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding while John was talking, his words are like gospel. It didn’t matter. 

Then Paul thinks back to that one time, they played a game of sorts, shouting out names of gorgeous women, thrashing a bit harder to get to the peak. Never admitting to himself that what really got him there, over the edge, was watching John’s face when the wave rolled over him. The pleasure in his eyes, the clenching of his jaw. That was really something. Something that had John appearing in most of his fantasies, while he got off. 

Now John is looking at him, with that look, thump or kiss. Paul shifts uncomfortably, feeling like John could read his mind. Looking away, but inadvertently moving closer to John in his bed with the process. “Did I tell ya’ why I let ‘ya in me band?” John asks wryly. Chuckling confidently, “’Cause I impressed your arse with me brilliant backwards guitar talent, Johnny!” Paul grabs his big toe through his wool sock, pulling to get a reaction from John, and that does it. John curls into himself while Paul proceeds to pinch and dig up his foot and shin bone. Next thing that occurs is John’s hand attempting to slap away Paul’s teasing grip, while he giggles in that high pitch he’s grown fond of. Pulling Paul up further his body, while he attempts to wrestle away from the contact.

Jabs and pushes with force, only entangle them further. Until Paul has John pinned with his thighs over John’s sharp pelvis, leaning over the older boy holding tight to the nicotine stained fingers above John’s head. “Got ‘ya Lennon, you may be older, but I can whip your arse. Don’t forget that, son.” Paul pushes down, until he’s hovering over the myopic squint of the half-drunk lad under him. 

When John looks up at him, he shifts his hips first, and Paul feels it. John’s aroused, and the gentle slope of his waist between his thighs is very real. The playful touch of teasing has now become foreplay, he finds himself tilting his groin slightly. Before he registers what exactly is happening, John whispers, “’S ‘cause you looked like Elvis, I dug you.” The words rip through Paul, John’s eyes never faltering as he bores the confession into him. 

With his hands tightening the wrists above him, Paul leans in, abruptly met with the red chapped lips of John. At first, his eyes wide and shocked, staring at the man kissing him hard, like it’s a prank. After a beat, he lets them close, taking in the sensations all around him. Daring, his plump lips part, breathing into John’s mouth out of sheer excitement, letting his hands drop from the grip he had. 

Then, the cool fingers trace across his cheek, cupping his jaw, while John takes it deeper. A moan in his throat, and a tongue brush into his mouth. His brain sizzles, the synapses firing at full speed, he goes for it, grabbing the moment. 

It becomes urgent hands, needy whines and thrusts. Paul thinks this is better than he ever could have imagined because it’s John, all of him, opening up just for Paul. Their chests touch, a callused thumb tracing his thin cotton, so close to his skin, learning his ridges and plains, claiming him. He rolls over, to face John, cheeks flushed. Holding the grinning face, he kisses soft pecks into the corners of his mouth, tracing his tongue lightly over the thin bottom lip. This is what he wants, what he dreams of at nights alone in his room. 

“Paul,” breathless whisper from the tough teddy boy. Paul can see this is tearing him down, feeling the moment overwhelm them. The dam breaks, this is happening and there isn’t going back.

Tracing his hand between them, he begins to unbutton the stiff denim of John’s jeans, followed by his own. John’s hand joins his, and when they touch each other, the last piece falls into place. The rhythm tied between their souls ignites, legs wrapped, mouth’s pleading, “yes, more.”

In the stuttering of hips and beads of sweat, Paul comes intensely, groaning loud into the salty collarbone of John. Letting him ride his pleasure, “Got you Baby, so incredible, yeah…” With lips pressed into his damp temple. A little more, a tighter tug, and John follows, growling into his ear, the thrum buzzing him to a higher pitch. 

The evidence is cool and wet between them, a reminder of what’s transpired now, but Paul can’t even care. He’s enveloped in John, lust, love and excitement. Smiling at each other, more soft kisses are placed, carefully, tenderly.

Still mostly clothed, John shifts off the bed, breaking the cocoon of post coital comfort, he moves directly to the record player. Lighting a cigarette, he puts on an album, Elvis to be exact, before coming back to the bed. He tucks Paul back in with a haphazard way of cleaning him up, but Paul just lets him tend to him, like he’s worth fussing over.

They lie shoulder to shoulder, passing the cigarette between them. They’ve shared before, but now the dampness on the filter tastes better, like it’s official. Soon, the arms between them entwine fingers, and John plucks the short smoke from Paul’s mouth, to lean over and kiss the full lips of the beautiful boy he loves.

‘Love Me Tender’ breaks into the silence of the room, and Paul can’t help kissing John deeper when it does.


End file.
